Booker Dewitt-No Baptism Needed
by BleachedBella
Summary: Some oneshots about Booker Dewitt after the wars and before Columbia. They'll feature Booker, Annabelle and Elizabeth/Anna.
1. A Pinkerton Second

_A few one-shots chronicling the life of Booker Dewitt before he went to Columbia. Bear with me if there are a few errors with Booker or the timeline. I'm pretty sure I did alright though considering how long I researched him. They will primarily feature Booker and Elizabeth's mother, Annabelle. Yes, that is her biological mother's name. I was pretty surprised myself._

 _ **A Pinkerton Second**_

 _New York, 1892_

"Alright, boss says to take in as little workers to the cops as possible. Get em' all to go home and teach em' when they come back that they better not do this again," said Davies as the Pinkertons pulled their wagon up to the Mill.

The men loaded their pistols and shotguns, preparing to strike against the more rebellious workers. To even kill them.

"I'd also like to remind all you gentlemen that this is Booker Dewitt's last riot."

The other Pinkertons turned their gaze to a nervous Booker who gnawed on his lower lip. He couldn't be more elated that this was his last raid with the Pinkertons. The past three had been so stressful what with his new method of detaining unruly workers.

"Congrats, Dewitt," grunted Paul, hopping out the back of the wagon and loading his Tommy Gun. "Now, let's get on with this, it's late."

Booker gave a nod of acknowledgement and exited as well. Davies joined him.

"Alright, Paul and Ken, you'll guard the wagon. Pete, to the workers on the left of the mill, I'll take the ones in the center building and Booker, take those on the right. Remember, casualties acceptable. We ready?"

Booker stared at the flames of the torches that illuminated the riot before them. The workers had already committed the essential acts of vandalism. Breaking equipment. Painting the slurs on the building. Some chanted and marched with signs. Some beat at the buildings and crying out that they would burn the place to the ground if they had to.

An empty threat, Booker had learned. That had only happened one time and after realizing that no place to work meant no job meant no raise in wages, it hadn't happened again.

Booker gently stroked the mouth of one of the horses that carried the wagon and walked determinedly to the right side of the building. He cocked his shotgun and exhaled through his nose. Out of the corner of his eye, Booker watched Ken and Davies shout at the workers, words of warning.

Davies loved his job. Loved to take the workers down, not in. Crippling them so they couldn't work ever again. He'd turned many men homeless and impoverished their families more than they'd already been.

"Hey!" Booker shouted, approaching the rioting workers.

They continued to holler and beat at the building with crowbars. One was holding a sign that read "NO RAISE, NO WORKERS, NO PRODUCT!" while the others hoisted his blazing torch higher in the sky.

"HEY!" Booker roared louder.

Still no reaction.

Booker sighed and fired his shotgun at the stars. The worker's heads finally turned in Booker's direction. He took another deep breath and aimed at them. Almost simultaneously they raised their hands in surrender. Some even dropped their weapons. One of them rushed at Booker, crying out in defiance. He reared his crowbar behind his head. With one hand Booker grabbed the worker's wrist and head butted him. The man dropped the crowbar as Booker twisted his arm behind his back.

"Go to the side of the building! Now!" roared Booker, holding the shotgun to the worker's side.

The men walked anxiously to the side of the building, some even still with raised hands.

"I'm-I'm sorry. I have a family," Booker's hostage croaked.

"Shut the hell up and walk," he growled in response.

When they reached the side of the building, Booker looked over his shoulder to see if Davies or Ken was following him. Nope. Coast was clear.

Once out of sight, Booker shoved his hostage at the other workers. They embraced their coworker and stared at Booker, wide eyed.

Booker rested his shotgun on his shoulder and took a step towards the men.

"Now you all have two choices," he began. "First choice, I fire a few bullets at the moon and you all limp home acting like I roughed you up and return to work tomorrow, hoping your boss takes you back."

They all exchanged looks of confusion and murmured to one another. Why wasn't he aiming his gun at them? Why hadn't he shot anyone? What was the young Pinkerton's game?

"The second choice is you continue to rebel, I fire some bullets and you pray they hit an arm or leg and not your heart; then those of you not passed out from the pain get taken to the police station, lose your job and spend weeks in the unemployment line while your families starve. Choice is yours."

Booker was relieved to see most of the workers were older. His bit about families probably struck a chord with them, making this a lot easier than the last time he had performed this stunt.

"What's the catch? What's the catch if we walk away?" a voice piped up from one of the dozen workers.

Booker shrugged, but his face was unreadable.

"You have to pretend to limp all the way home tonight and look like a weak son of a bitch who had the shit beaten out of him."

"Why? Why do this? What's in it for you?" questioned a man in the front.

"I'm supposed to take in as little workers as possible. Your boss wants you back at work and obedient. Not locked in a cell or too crippled to work. Helps my reputation if you leave unscathed and go back to work," he lied.

 _'It's the only way to undo what I've done...'_

That was the real reason. Also the reason behind him quitting the Pinkertons tonight.

Silence washed over them again. Booker gave them another moment to think before responding.

"We don't have all damn night. Start limping home," growled Booker.

One man began to limp away. It only took a few seconds for more to follow. A man threw his torch to the ground reluctantly and stomped it out with his work boot before stalking off. Booker fired his shotgun into the sky, one round after the other. The sounds of other bullets sounded off from the other side of the building.

After all the shots had been fired, Booker let his gun fall limply to his side and glanced over his shoulder. More workers, ones who were actually injured, walked off into the night.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Booker's brows furrowed and he turned back around. A man, even younger than Booker remained. The one who had been holding the sign.

"You better move on out of here, kid. You're gonna get into trouble running your mouth at me," Booker warned.

"I got nothing to lose, Pinkerton. No children. No wife. I ain't leavin'."

"Don't make me beat the hell out you. I'm tired," drawled Dewitt.

The young man threw down his sign and took an angry step towards Booker.

"I'm not like them. I ain't a coward. You can't get me to back down," the boy snarled.

Booker rolled his eyes and loaded up his shotgun, lazily.

"You're all talk. You don't scare me."

"Yeah, you're very brave," he said sarcastically.

"I'll prove it!"

The boy lunged at Booker, removing a wrench from the pocket of his trousers. Booker groaned. The kid wasn't even approaching him properly for an attack and when he went to swing that wrench, he'd stumble.

Sure enough, the boy went to hit Booker with the wrench. Booker dodged it and the boy staggered, dropping it. He turned back at Booker who punched him in the temple. The boy fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Booker saddled his shotgun and picked the unconscious young man up, tossing him over his shoulder.

"Almost made it out. Almost finished the last one with no prisoners. Figures," mumbled Booker walking back to the wagon.

By the end of it all Davies had killed one man, sent ten home injured and permanently crippled two. Ken brought back three prisoners sending ten home brutally injured. The ride to the station was long. Davies laughed at the pleadings of the men he had wounded and said he looked forward to the next raid. He pitied Booker for missing out.

Booker couldn't be happier he wouldn't be present for it.

The police met the men and the detained workers outside. Some of them finally rousing from their unconsciousness. They were locked in cells. Some mumbling contact information of their wives and parents. The boy Booker had arrested managed to get out that his name was Charles. Booker tried to ignore it. He had no interest in learning the identities of the people he attacked. Bail was ten dollars or they'd have to sit it out over night.

"Well, I say we toast Booker Dewitt. He was only with us for three months but for eighteen years old he was a hell of a Pinkerton," Davies said removing a bottle of whiskey from the box on the wagon.

He poured it into the tin coffee cups that were scattered about the seats and back.

"To Booker Dewitt," said Davies, raising his cup.

"To Booker," both Ken and Paul said.

Pete was long gone. Back home with his wife and newborn son.

"What are you off to do, Booker? You've been what? A soldier and a Pinkerton? What line of work could you possibly be interested in?" Davies asked.

"Looking to become a P.I.," he responded swallowing some whiskey.

Questions of Booker's ability to run his own agency echoed amongst them. He met ever skeptic comment with a shrug and honest of answer of 'I guess I'll wait and see' or 'who knows?'

There was the sound of loud hooves from behind them. The men turned to see a large horse galloping down the street and towards the station.

"Someone's finally come to bail out their loved one," Paul scoffed.

"I'm betting a father," Davies added.

Booker shook his head.

"No. I bet it's a brother."

The men squinted into the night trying to make out the gender of the person approaching.

"Well, I'll be damned..." breathed Paul.

It was a young woman. About Booker's age. She pulled the reigns of the horse, halting him and slid off. This was rare. Only a handful of times had the men seen a woman come to bail out one of the workers. Booker shook his head. Most of the time the women had no money and begged for the police to let their loved one go. Ken and Paul always found it amusing where Davies found it aggravating and Booker sad.

She didn't go straight inside though. Instead the young woman straightened her long, green skirt and white blouse, then pulled her coat tighter around herself. It was far too large. She stormed over to the men, her dark hair in a ponytail over her shoulder.

"Which one of you took in Charles?" she said, holding up a sign.

"What?" snapped Davies.

"He was protesting at work tonight. This is his sign. I found it at the mill and he hasn't come home. That means he's here. Which one of you took pleasure in arresting a fifteen year old instead of returning him home to his sister?" replied the woman.

Booker set down his whiskey, standing up straight from where he had been leaning on the wagon.

"I took in Charles," he said folding his arms.

She stomped over to him. Booker felt electrocuted by her wide, blue eyes. Her pink, bow shaped lips were in a defiant line. She raised her hand and slapped him across the face.

"Hey, now, little lady," Paul sniggered taking a step towards her.

Booker held up a palm, impeding Paul then rubbed his jaw. Slowly he turned his eyes to the young woman who was apparently Charles' sister.

"My job isn't to return unruly workers to their sisters. My job is to detain people rioting. He tried to attack me. You're lucky I didn't shoot," Booker replied, his eyes narrowed. "Now, why don't you go retrieve him yourself and head on home. This is no place for you to be at n-"

He was cut off by her knuckles hitting his jaw.

"Alright, that's it. I'm getting the cops," grunted Davies.

"No," Booker protested, wiping some blood off his now busted lip. "Let her go. I think the lady has got it all out of her system now."

She held his gaze for another moment then turned on her heel and marched inside. Booker smirked and relaxed against the wagon.

"Damn. I don't believe I've seen that happen before," remarked Paul.

"Yeah, Dewitt. I would've shown her a little justice."

"She's just a kid, Davies. Worried about her brother," Booker sighed.

A few drinks and about twenty minutes later, the young woman exited the station with 'Charles' in tow. With shoulders slumped and head bowed, he cast a glance at Booker who quickly averted his eyes. He could still feel the boy's grateful gaze on him though.

"C'mon, Charlie," said the girl gently, draping her oversized coat on his shoulders.

Booker could hear the hooves galloping off. That was the sound of one of his many sins being redeemed. But he was still nowhere near being forgiven.

 _What do you think? Again, go easy on me as far as timeline goes. I know Booker is sixteen when he battles at Wounded Knee then eighteen when he leaves to work for the Pinkertons then leaves them a few months later and then has Anna when he almost twenty.._


	2. Annabelle Watson

_**Annabelle Watson**_

It had been about a week since Booker Dewitt left the Pinkertons to start his own Private Detective Agency. He hadn't expected business immediately, but he also didn't expect to be so bored. He had no friends outside of the Pinkertons and even they weren't truly his friends. Besides, even if they were he wanted as far away from those type of people as possible. He wanted nothing more than to start over. Of course that chance had been offered to him one day in the river and he had turned it down flat.

He laughed at the memory, taking another sip of his scotch. It felt good to be back in the city. He'd missed bars like this with their dim lighting, the humming of other people and the thrumming of guitars accompanied by the gentle voice of a man or woman.

"Another one, sir?" asked the bartender.

Booker looked at his almost empty glass and shook his head. He had to be careful. He knew that. Alcoholism ran in his family and he refused to turn to it as a crutch like his father. Not to mention, he had no reason to. His father had no job, a runaway wife and a son who didn't particularly care for his drunken conduct.

"Could I just have some water?" Booker requested.

The bartender nodded in response and walked away.

" _There are loved ones… In the glory… Whose dear forms we often miss… When you end your earthly story… Will you join them in their bliss?"_

It was the voice of a young woman. Gentle and kind. He hadn't heard it at this bar before. Most of the time men sang with the occasional sensual, croon of a woman accompanied by piano. Booker's food tapped to the acoustic melody as he tossed back the rest of his drink. Whoever she was, her voice was gorgeous and he felt like he could listen to it all day. He never wanted the song to end.

" _...one by one their seats were emptied… One by one they went away... "_

Booker frowned as he recognized the song was coming to a close. That had been his third glass of scotch and even after chasing it with water he was slightly more courageous than usual. Courageous in the way that only alcohol could make you.

" _There's a better home awaiting… In the sky, Lord, in the sky…"_

With one final strum of the guitar, the song was finished. Booker smiled to himself. Whoever she was, he was going to buy her a drink and win her over. Then they'd go on a date and he'd be able to have a normal life with her as non-lethal detective who didn't assault people for a living.

"Bartender," called Booker. "I want a drink for the lady that just sang. What does she usually get?"

The Bartender narrowed his eyes, trying to see who had just sang. He pursed his lips.

"She's a new one. I can't say I know her drink."

"Well," Booker grunted, sliding off his stool. "I'll be right back and then I'll tell you."

"Godspeed, sir."

Booker, still somewhat composed, maneuvered around the tables and towards the front of the bar in hopes of seeking out the young woman. He craned his neck, trying to see over the other customers. Some who stood and some who sat. The dim lighting of the club did nothing to help him seek her out. She'd be back surely. He'd come back every night if he had to, just to find that woman.

With a groan of defeat, Booker turned around to return to his seat at the bar. Booker clambered onto the stool. The bartender met his eyes.

"Will we be wanting another after all?"

Booker chewed his lower lip. Another glass sounded great as a matter of fact.

' _Remember your dad. You don't want to be dad,'_ Booker thought.

He sighed and shook his head.  
"Another water and then I'm outta here," resolved Booker.

"I'll have some whiskey, please."

Booker's head snapped to the right. Though not currently singing, he could pick out her melodious voice without a second thought. It was the girl who had been singing.

"I'll buy it," he interjected slapping some money on the counter.

"I got it, actually."

"No, no, no. I owe you one for entertaining me with your voice. I happen to love that song."

She finally met his gaze and instantly, he recognized her. Charles' sister. Those shocking blue eyes were the only confirmation that he needed.

"On the contrary. _I_ owe _you_."

"Oh, shit."

"You know what? Lemme buy both of us a drink. Just so happens, I was paid plentifully tonight."

The young woman put her own money on the counter. Hesitantly, Booker took his back.

"Judging by the smell on your breath last time we encountered one another I'll bet you'd like whiskey?"

Booker nodded numbly.

"Two whiskeys, please," the girl said to the bartender.

The bartender turn to the rack of drinks and removed two glasses. Booker stared at his hands.

"Just...just one though, okay?" he added.

"Of course."

Suddenly, she was one stool closer to him. He could feel those eyes on him once again. Slowly he looked over. She was smiling warmly.  
"I want to apologize for Charlie. He's just a dumb kid and...I should have never let him out of my sight. I'm new to this whole…parenting thing...and he told me what you did for him. I appreciate that."

"Like you said, he's just a kid. Kids do stupid things," shrugged Booker as the bartender returned with the drinks. "What do you mean, parenting? Mom and dad pass away?"

"Mom ran after dad passed a year ago. My grandma is helping us now though," she replied. "What about you? You're awfully young to be living in the city, drinking in a bar."

"I'm nearly nineteen, Miss. I can handle myself fine."

For a moment she looked a little wounded, but then she caught the slight smile on his face. Booker extended a hand to her.

"I'm Booker Dewitt."

"Annabelle Watson. Call me, Annie if you like."

"I like Annabelle," Booker said, trying not to slur his words.

Booker divulged the details of his life to her. Surprisingly she didn't seem to look sad or shocked or even sympathetic. He appreciated that. The last thing Booker wanted was sympathy. It was enough for him to simply be listened to. It had been a while since he'd talked to someone who just wanted to listen. It seemed that they had both had it rough, though she enforced that he had it way worse.

"I was just dealt a bad hand is all," Booker responded. "That happens to a lot of us and we manage just fine. How's your brother? He still working at the mill or did they…"

"They let him stay. Like I said, Grandma is kind of taking the reigns with my brother...seeing as I made a real hash of the job. She told me to leave. Told me that I deserved a normal life."

"So what are you doing for money?"

Annabelle's eyes drifted around the club. She gestured to her surroundings.

"Playing guitar and singing in places like this. What about you? You said you were done with Pinkertons."

Booker blushed ever so slightly and cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed. The effects of the alcohol were wearing off finally, much to his regret.

"I just opened up my own P.I. agency a few blocks north."

"Where do you live?"

"Uh...a few blocks north."

"You live in the place you work?"

"You judging me, Miss?" he grinned. "Where do you live?"

"No, no! Not judging you at all, Mr. Dewitt-"

"Booker."

Annabelle's cheeks turned rosy and she smiled, just slightly.

"Booker."

"Where do you live, Annabelle?" he pressed.

"Oh, um… I just moved here a few days ago. Still haven't found a place so...I'm living upstairs of Noir's Bar in exchange for nightly music and...waitressing."

Booker noted the look of embarrassment on her face and offered a warm grin. He gently touched her shoulder.

"No shame in hard work. Especially if it gives you food, money and shelter."

The two talked for a few more hours, forgetting about drinks eventually. Their trading of facts on one another eventually dissolved into laughter. Booker didn't have many lighthearted stories to tell, but Annabelle seemed to have plenty. It had been a while since Booker had smiled so much. It made him delirious almost. So delirious that he ended up inviting Annabelle Watson to come stay the night at his place, to which she gratefully obliged.

Staying the night turned to staying for a week which led to being quite comfortable. A two income household was nice, Booker found, and so was company. He'd never really had a roommate, or to be candid, a girlfriend. Not to mention, the P.I. business was less than lucrative and he spent most of his time working with people who were worried about spouses cheating. Not missing persons or even mysterious crimes. That didn't pay well. Neither did being a freelance singer or musician.

"How are we going to make rent this month?" asked Annabelle massaging the bridge of her nose.

Booker stared at his newspaper, eyes zeroing in on a single article.

"There's the pony races. Winning one time could cover a whole month."

"Gambling?" Annabelle inquired, raising a brow.

Booker shrugged and stood from his chair behind his desk. He walked over to Annabelle who stared out the window, biting her lower lip. Booker faced her and tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear. She looked to him, blue eyes beneath brows furrowed in anxiety.

"Just this once," he reassured.

"Okay," she sighed. "But never again after this time. We make rent and that's it."

"That's it."

 _Alright, one more. Maybe two if I feel generous. :)_


End file.
